


Foolish Heart

by Severina



Category: Oz (1997)
Genre: Community: hardtime100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-07
Updated: 2009-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hours go by pretty slowly when you're alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foolish Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 208.  
> Prompt 05: The Plot Thickens (LJ's Hardtime100 Community)  
> Thanks to ozsaur for brainstorming. And to Steve Perry, aka The Voice of God, for title and inspiration.

The hours go by pretty fucking slowly when you're alone.

They brought our dinners to the pods -- luke-warm corn and mashed potatoes and ice-cold nuggets -- and I ate slowly, chewing every bite like it was my last and following each one with a fruit juice chaser.

They'd already talked to me about Beecher, of course -- McManus stepping into the pod like he owns it, wearing his concerned face, pinching the bridge of his nose like he actually gives a shit about any of us. Me playing along, arms crossed at my chest -- _no, Beecher hasn't mentioned anyone in particular givin' him a hard time_ and _I don't know his schedule, I ain't his keeper_ and of course _is Beecher gonna be all right?_ \-- and McManus leaves the pod in his usual state -- oblivious.

There's nothing to do after dinner. I scrounge through Toby's trunk and find a couple of old porn mags and lean back on my bed, flick idly through one of them, but I already been through them a hundred times and besides, I ain't in the mood. When I sit up I knock over the little tin that Toby keeps the chess pieces in, and rooks and knights and queens tumble to the floor. I spend five minutes cleaning them up, taking my time 'cause time's all I got, feeling the hard ridges of the wood with my thumb, noticing little places where the stain has worn off 'cause we've played the damn game so much.

In the end I pull the trunk over to the bed and set up the board, making sure all the pieces are in the right spots, trying to go through all the stupid rules in my head. I hunch over the board, squint my eyes and study it, thinking that maybe I can practice, and when Beecher gets back…

I sit back on the bed and scrub my hand over my jaw. He's probably at Benchley Memorial by now. Hopped up on some of the good shit while the docs try to put him back together again, Em City's own Humpty Dumpty, maybe even stick him full of pins and screws to hold the bones in place. I only had one broken bone when I got here, cracked it on the concrete when I crashed the bike, and that bastard hurt like a motherfucker once I came down off the meth. Fuck.

I shake my head, reach down and pick up one of the pieces -- the knight -- and twirl it between my fingers. The knight's one of the most flexible pieces, boppin' and weavin' across the board. The knight's got moves.

Beecher smiled a lot when we were playing this game. That's what I remember. He did all the things you're not supposed to do -- smiled and made eye contact and all that shit. It was like he never learned the rules of the joint. Or maybe he just forgot 'em all when he was with me.

Well, that was the plan.

That was the fucking plan.

I toss the stupid fucking knight across the room, take a deep breath before pulling myself up from the bed, up and away from these bullshit maudlin thoughts. 'Cause that ain't me. Think maybe I'll work out a little, do some push-ups, and then I remember how Beecher used to look at me when I was gettin' all hot and sweaty in the pod, how he used to pretend to be reading a book, his eyes downcast to the page when I knew full well that he was watchin' me from under those lashes. I used to play up to it, too, keep going just a little longer until I was feelin' the burn in every muscle, and then flex and stretch when I got up, splash water on my face and let it drip down my chest and watch the way his tongue would sneak out and lick at his bottom lip and he didn't even know he was doin' it.

I'd feel my dick gettin' hard and try to remember it was just a game.

I move to the sink and splash some water on my face now, use a towel specifically so it don't drip down my chest even though I'm fully clothed. The mirror's all distorted, and for a second I think I can see Beecher up in the top bunk, a book in his hands. Lookin' at me like he used to. I blink and the image is gone.

And even though there's only water on my lips, I swear I can taste the 'shine that Vern smuggled in to me. The moonshine, and the taste of Beecher laid overtop of it -- real mint toothpaste that his mom sends religiously every month and that he hoards like a fuckin' miser, and something else, something indefinable but definitely Beecher.

And I know I'm alone in the pod, but I swear I can hear the clunk of the dryers, and smell the fabric softener and the faint hint of exhaust. I swear I can feel his body pressed against me and his hands resting lightly on my shoulders, and the way his lips just opened against mine when we kissed.

I don't even know how long I'm standing there, staring at the mirror and seein' Beecher and me, dancin' that dance in all its little movements. Long enough for the banks of lights to flicker off, one by one. They'll be comin' along with the flashlight soon enough, barkin' at me to get into bed.

But instead of undressing, instead of climbing into bed and closing my eyes and just letting this day _end_ for fucks sake, I stand in front of the bunk, smoothing my hand over Beecher's blanket. Remembering him waking up, sweat soaked and shaking, the smell of him, the way his damp hair curled around my fingers when I cupped his neck and tried to make it better. Remembering talking with him quietly long after lights out, him tellin' me things he probably never told another person in his whole fucking life. Remember bitchin' at him too, and arguing -- mostly over that fucking chess set. I remember laughing with him.

I forgot the rules when I was with him, too.

And I don't even know when I started feelin' things I shouldn't feel, for a mark and for a man, for this particular man. 'Cause I'm damn good at what I do. I can make anyone believe anything. I can make you sign over your house, your life savings, your first born fucking child, and I can make you smile and sing while you're doing it. I've been lying for so long I didn't recognize the truth when it slapped me in the face.

And see, the thing is, Beecher says the pawn's the weakest piece on the board. But if he can make his way to the other side, he becomes the most powerful. He can control things. He can turn the whole game on its ass.

I got a bad feeling this is now a game I can't win.

But I gotta try. He'll be in the hospital for awhile, and the infirmary after that, gnashin' his teeth, so that means I've got some time to figure out how the hell I'm gonna make this up to him. I told Beecher once that I do what I have to -- I meant it then and I sure as fuck mean it now. I'll prove to him that I'm sorry. I'll tell him that I love him. I'll do whatever he asks.

Of course, the smart thing to do is just pack my bags and get out of town. Give it a couple of weeks and then find that weasel McManus, tell him I'm bored and that I want to get moved into somebody else's pod. Meanwhile, the whole reason I'm even stuck here in this hellhole is 'cause I got wasted and thought I could pull a heist in the middle of the fuckin' day, which proves that I ain't exactly the sharpest crayon in the box.

I already know I'm not gonna listen to my head. Not when my heart's beatin' this fast.


End file.
